For alice_montrose: Kuroshitsuji, Sebastian/Undertaker
"I think you've drawn blood," Undertaker said happily. He'd known Sebastian bit before he began teasing the demon. He'd been counting on it.
"Shinigami don't bleed." Sebastian said, baring his nails and the tetragrammaton with the shedding of his gloves. "Unless they have a human conceit to."
"As demons may have a human conceit to assume their form, imitate their customs, and pretend their emotions," Undertaker recited, stretching himself out luxuriously. "Up to and including obedience, devotion...affection?"
"Be quiet," Sebastian murmured, setting teeth to Undertaker's other wrist and biting once more. "Or I shall leave this bed."
"Even the bed is our mutual conceit." Undertaker savored the dig of Sebastian's nails into his wrists as the demon pinned him, began to worry open the throat of his robes with his teeth. "We could assume our true forms, if we cared to."
"We might." Sebastian was tonguing his way over Undertaker's chest. "You would have to forego this, of course," he added as the flat of his tongue crested over one nipple.
Undertaker delighted in the shiver, in the pleasure of a body that could shiver. "Your true form still has a tongue," he taunted.
"But does yours still have the capacity to appreciate it?" Sebastian gave as good as he got. That was another reason to provoke him.
"Your true form has wings," Undertaker sighed.
Another bite, this one much lower. "I can bear you to heaven just as easily this way, you whimsical fool."
"Oh, I should like to see you try to enter that place, demon."
Sebastian lifted his head. "Are you trying to force another pun out of me?"
Undertaker grinned. "You knew my nature when you came to this bed."
Sebastian's mouth twisted. "Before you next laugh, before you even sigh, shinigami--" another bite that provoked a delightful gasp-- "you will say my name. My human name."
If the demon didn't force him to scream it long before they were done, Undertaker would be most disappointed.
For glockgal: Watership Down, Bigwig/Hyzenthlay
There were times Bigwig looked at Hyzenthlay and wondered if she'd made the right decision. He never wondered if he had; he'd been fated to fall for the doe from the first time he'd heard her sing that tragic lament, from the first moment she'd fixed him with those uncanny, wounded eyes of hers that said You are an officer of Efrafa, and I despise the whole Owsla of you. No, he could never have made another choice. Hyzenthlay was as much a part of him as his claws or his breath, and their kittens were his delight and Bigwig would have sworn by Frith and Inlé there was not another rabbit in the warren as contented as he.
But at times he wondered if Hyzenthlay had accepted him because he wanted her, and if she might have made a different choice of mate if he had not made it so plain that only she would do for him. Bigwig did not think he was a rabbit to be scorned, but he was a practical sort; he could run, and he could fight, and those virtues, which had been all he had had to extol for Efrafa's purposes, were still his strongest. He wasn't Chief Rabbit material, like Hazel-rah. Hyzenthlay might have chosen a chief. And he certainly didn't share any of Hyzenthlay's otherworldly perceptions such as Fiver did. Those two might have been a perfect match, and who knew what sort of kittens might have come from such a mating? Wouldn't Hyzenthlay have considered that if her choice had really been free? Did she really prefer to stay with a scarred-up old veteran like himself?
So there were times he looked at her and thought that. But shortly she would absent herself from whatever she was doing, while he looked at her, and come to join him. She would not ask what he'd wanted, in looking at her, nor would he ask if she wanted something from him. They would sit in comfortable silence, and Bigwig would come to realize that that strange perception of hers had told her he wanted her with him at just that moment, needed her solid lovely presence at his side to remind him what good had come to the warren because of him, what it meant to have a practical, fighting, running rabbit at the right hand of the chief. And that the bravest doe in the warren knew it, and did not regret her own choice.
For midnitemaraud_r: Kyou Kara Maou, Gwendal/Conrad, loyalty
Conrad's bootsteps are unmistakable; Gwendal hears them coming all the way from the end of the hall. The smell of cooked meat becomes stronger as he approaches.
Conrad stops before Gwendal, before the Maou's door, bearing a plate covered by a napkin, which he removes: warm beef between bread slices, fruit. A soldier's meal, ready to be eaten in hand. "You missed dinner," says Conrad. "You could have stopped for a bite in the kitchen before coming here."
Gwendal grunts. He takes the plate, takes the bread-and-meat and begins to eat. His self-privation may be famous, but he certainly should not neglect his strength when the opportunity causes no distraction. "I was due to stand a shift," he mutters about his mouthful. "We've all gone without a meal when duty dictated otherwise."
Conrad smiles that easy smile of his. "I would have spelled you ten minutes for food, Gwendal."
Gwendal grunts again. The grunt says, Yes, I know you would, you would have spelled me the entire shift, just as I would do the same for you, as we both would do our duty unswervingly for the Maou. He knows Conrad can hear all of that in the grunt without it needing to be spoken.
Taking another bite of the bread, Gwendal chews, swallows and says, "You should get your rest. You have the shift after mine."
Conrad's eyes drop in what looks like a guilty admission about to be made. "Not tonight. Yozak will spell you." He smiles again, but it is not so easy this time. It's...sheepish. "Yozak insisted."
Gwendal waits to hear the end of it, knowing silence alone will draw Conrad out. It does. Conrad continues: "Yozak thought it was a pity you and I spend so much time on consecutive shifts at night."
"What business is it of Yozak's?"
"He's a spy. Everything is Yozak's business."
"Come to my room tonight, after your shift," Conrad says, and his smile is back to being easy. "I'll have a late meal and ale for both of us. Conversation if you want it."
And something else if he does not want conversation. Gwendal can hear that without it needing to be spoken. There is no one else with whom Gwendal can communicate so completely in so few words, and that is one reason he will go to Conrad's room.
For an anonymous Who fan: Doctor Who, Doctor/Master, chains
"Why is it," says the Doctor, trying to think of fifteen possibilities for escape at once, "that whenever you and I meet, there are always chains involved?"
"Because," says the Master, "I'm usually the one who brings them. Often enough, anyway. Fuck," he chuckles as he sets his teeth to his wrist and begins to gnaw.
"Oh, come now," says the Doctor, because that was number three on the list and he knows Time Lord dentition will never make it through bone quickly enough to beat the explosion, "Is that how you want to spend your last moments? Bleeding out?"
"Actually, no." The Master grits his bloody teeth in a smile that could be rakish, if he weren't mad as the offspring of ten March Hares and twenty Hatters. "I'd much prefer to spend them rutting my way through every whore on Eroticon Six, but it's not like I'm about to get that, is it?"
Nineteen seconds. Perhaps if they both tried to bite through the wrist of just one of them; that's all they'd need to escape the handcuffs. He estimates a strong chance that the Master will waste at least ten seconds making them decide whose wrist, which means it still won't work.
"Hang on," says the Master, and he still isn't doing anything useful to contribute, damn him, "weren't you stuck on Eroticon Six without your TARDIS once? And had to sell yourself to the highest bidder to get yourself off-planet?"
Before the Doctor can begin to protest that story's so exaggerated it's not even funny, possibility number sixteen pops into his head, and it will work and no one has to lose a wrist for it, so he does it and they're free and inside his TARDIS and thirteen hundredths of a second past dematerialization when the explosion arrives, which of course doesn't mean the Doctor's out of danger because it's the Master, after all, and when the Doctor wakes up from being struck on the head he's sans TARDIS, sans TARDIS key, sans sonic screwdriver and sans psychic paper in the slavepits of Frigidia IX. Also sans clothing, damn the bastard.
Well, that is it. There will be no make-up sex between them, ever.
jenna_thorn, got any fandom/pairing in mind for that wedding request? I could still give it a go!